Solitary Man
by paperbkryter
Summary: Post Exodus Ficlet - features Lex. The usual disclaimers apply.


The sun wasn't up yet, but Lex could see the pale blush of light on the horizon marking its impending emergence from the dark seas. That's all there was to see; the sun, the sky, the water, and the small pile of rocks and sand that made up his new home.   
  
He wondered how long someone could survive on seaweed and a bottle of champagne. Perhaps "home" was a misnomer. Grave was more apt.   
  
It hadn't taken him very long, a day actually, to determine he was pretty much doomed. The "island" he'd been washed up on was little more than a jut of volcanic rock in the middle of nowhere, not much bigger than the gardens at the house in Smallville. There was no vegetation beyond what clung to the rocky shoreline, no fresh water, and no tidal pools in which fish could be caught. Real life was no Gilligan's Island. Lex didn't even have a damn volley-ball.   
  
What he did have was as valuable to him as all the money he'd ever had in his life. The section of wooden paneling from the plane, which had carried him to this relative safety, was now propped up against a rock high above the high tide line, one side draped with his suit jacket. His tattered dress shirt lay beneath it on the sandy ground.  
  
His new mansion, complete with carpeting.   
  
Washed up onto the rocks with him, miraculously unbroken, was a still corked bottle of champagne. It wasn't the drugged version, if that had been the champagne at all and not something coated on the glass, but instead an unopened bottle from the plane's stash. It wasn't the fine vintage Lex and Helen had shared. It was cheap "sparkling" wine. It was also his salvation.   
  
He figured he had about nine days left to live, give or take. Much depended upon how long he could make the champagne last, and how effective it would be as a source of hydration. A man could live three days without water, longer without food. The champagne could provide some nourishment and moisture. He could dry the seaweed in the sun and eat that, along with any sea creatures unlucky enough to get stranded among the rocks when the tide went out again. Conservation of moisture and energy could be had by sleeping during the day and carrying on his business after sundown.   
  
"What business?" Lex murmured.   
  
Pulling his bare knees up to his chest he rested his chin on them. He wore only his boxers. His slacks had been shredded on the rocks when he'd been thrown up against them, and his knees were a reflection. They were skinned and bruised like they'd never been in his youth. Lex had been stripped of not only his clothing, but *all* his protections. Socio-economic status meant little to Mother Nature, she hadn't cared if he had money in the bank and a Porsche in the garage. The bitch.   
  
Lex scratched idly at the scabs, then raised his eyes to look out over the water.   
  
The sea was dark and rather still, but in the dusty light of pre-dawn he could see the flickering white caps of waves breaking. Not far below his perch the water lapped against the rocky shore with the "slush, slush" sound that had become both a torture and a lullaby. If he were rescued he would never forget that sound as long as he lived. It had ingrained itself into his consciousness like some post hypnotic suggestion, or a demonic possession. It could not be purged.   
  
God was vicious, Lex decided, to strand a bald man on an island at sea. Like a mollusk deprived of its shell he would lay writhing upon the sand while the sun sucked the moisture, and thus the life, out of him. They would find nothing but a dried up scrap of flesh and bone, if they ever found him at all. The thought made him shudder. How horrible it would be, how undignified.   
  
Lex never imagined he'd die alone. He'd actually never truly believed he'd die at all, because death was something he didn't like to contemplate. Death, to Lex Luthor, was a failure. It was a betrayal. Lex didn't like failure and he didn't like betrayal. It was ironic that both had led him to his fate. He had failed to see the clues leading up to Helen's traitorous acts. Failure and betrayal - both were going to cost him his life.   
  
Yet Lex didn't blame Helen. Despite it all he still loved her. She'd touched him in ways no one else ever had before. Her presence in his life had allowed Lex to set aside things he'd once held in great importance and cleared his vision. His love for Helen strengthened his friendship with Clark. He started seeing Clark as a person again, rather than a thing. Lex liked Clark the person. Friend, and brother, Clark was always there for him. Lex had begun to overlook that, until Helen came along.   
  
A miraculous rescue by Clark was unlikely now. Lex's eyes flickered down to the rock beside him, upon which sat a dull metallic object. He picked it up and looked at the dial. The compass helped him little beyond providing him with a small comfort. Jonathan Kent would never send his son to his death. Jonathan Kent understood the find balance a father walked between overlord and educator. It was the melding of firmness and kindness that created a father. One had to be selfish and selfless at the same time. By that definition, Lionel Luthor should have been castrated at birth. He was incapable of thinking of anyone other than himself.   
  
Lex's fist closed tightly around the compass. Here alone, unfettered by any need for emotional control, Lex would have wept; such was the pain he felt. He didn't, he hadn't, because tears would leech from him valuable moisture, and despite his unfavorable odds, Lex was not going to stop fighting for his life. Not until his mind could no longer function well enough to force breath into his lungs, would he allow Death to enter. The shadowy specter could linger around the periphery, circling like a ghoulish vulture, but Lex would remain untouchable until the very end. Tooth and nail he would cling to survival. Survival meant hope, and hope brought with it the possibility of revenge.   
  
His gaze returned to the horizon. The richer midnight blue of the sky was receding to make way for the brilliant tropical blue of a picture postcard Lex would never send. The faint, wispy clouds were taking on a definite rose-colored tint. He could see the topmost arc of the sun rising from the sea and by that Lex knew it was time to go to ground. Slowly he stood, his bare feet, tender and bruised from the rocks, protested his weight. The physical pain cut through that of the emotional, and gave him focus.  
  
Lex's eyes narrowed. "If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared," he whispered.   
  
After a moment he turned away from the dawn, picking his way up the rocks to the sandy beach and the shade of his makeshift shelter. With a sigh he curled himself into a ball, tucking his face into his arms to protect his eyes from the rising sun. His last thoughts before a fitful sleep came over him were as dark as the night sky and the deepest depths of the surrounding seas.   
  
Lionel Luthor had better pray his son was never found alive. 


End file.
